


but myself i can't deceive

by orangesparks



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ironic, perhaps, that this was a sin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but myself i can't deceive

The water lapped at his bare flesh, enveloping him. It reminded him of baptism. A fresh start. 

(Ironic, perhaps, that this was a sin.)

He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes, razor heavy in his palm. It would have been easier, if he’d gone years ago. On that cross. 

Emerson hadn’t been Catholic; couldn’t have known that despite centuries of iconography stating the contrary, Christ had actually received wounds on his wrists, not his palms. If help hadn’t arrived almost immediately, his hands would have ripped clean through the nails and he’d have bled to death - if asphyxiation hadn’t gotten him first. 

Crucifixion would have been better. More dignified. But everything was crumbling, now. There was nothing else for it.

He swallowed. _Now_. Before he lost his nerve. The razor was becoming warm from the heat of his palm. Then— a breeze shifted the air in the room, raising gooseflesh on his arms. A cool hand brushed his cheek. 

“Timothy.”

The soft, gravelly voice chilled his blood. No. It couldn’t be-- 

He opened his eyes, slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the room, and she stared back down at him. 

“No,” he whispered. “You’re not here… you can’t be here…”

Her eyes were cool, cruelly _indifferent_ ; the type of expression that Jude never wore, not around him. Her lips were painted blood red, hair twisted back elegantly, tendrils loose around her face and bright against the black of the silk dress she wore. She lifted her chin and studied him, dispassionately.

She was beautiful. 

He clenched his fists, sudden fury blooming through him despite the anguish and shuddering fear. 

( _you lost your virtue not to a loving woman, but to the devil_ , she’d chanted, for years, in his nightmares, in his waking thoughts, whenever he caught a flash of dark blonde beneath a white cap and black veil, witnessed any woman with her step a little too sure, voice a little too sharp--)

She was here to taunt him. 

“Get away,” he snarled, the threat sounding pathetic even to his own ears. Jude seemed to sense it, too, those red lips curling up in grim promise.

“Peace is so close, Father,” she whispered, voice barely more than a sinister purr, and he hated himself for the way he leaned into her touch, the relief of her cool fingers on his flushed cheek, his eyelids nearly fluttering closed. 

“You came to triumph over me, didn't you? To get your revenge.” He'd faked her suicide, and now here she was, to rejoice over his, delight in his weakness.

She merely stared, lip still curled, and he snapped his eyes shut, willing her away as much as he needed her to remain by his side. Would she kiss him, lips warm on his, the way she'd once yearned to under different circumstances; so poetically grant him the release they both knew he needed? The thought was both a thrill and a torment. 

He shifted the razor in his hand, felt its comforting weight, then - sliced down one trembling wrist, then the other. Slumping back into the tub, his arms splayed out to his sides, crimson already trickling down pale skin. 

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.


End file.
